A Memory

 

I was just listening to Arlo Guthry’s, “City of New Orleans” and it made me think of something. A memory.

Not an ancient memory. Ancient memories are reserved for archeology of the soul. Not even a long ago memory. Long ago memories are reserved for special occasions. When you first fell in love, for instance. Or when you first fell out of love. Those are long ago memories. Or they become them as you, yourself get longer and longer ago.

There’s nostalgia. Nostalgia is made of long ago memories, perhaps peppered with ancient ones and seasoned with memories you would like to get rid of but which just won’t go away. Those are the ones we reflect on the most. I’m not that reflective now. Not today. We’ll leave nostalgia for another day.

This memory, today’s memory. What was this memory? It was a, hmm, not-that-long-ago memory, but still one that resonates. One that means something to me and that meant something to me when I was having it and being remembered by it and continues to mean something to me today. And when I was being had by it, and thought about and thought over and steamed and mulled around it in the recesses of my mind, as is proper of all memory. When I was making the memory a part of me.

I was on another train, not unlike Arlo’s, “City of New Orleans,” train. But this one was the Trans Siberian Railroad. Not the musical group. The real one. The one that goes from Moscow to Vladivostok, all 9000 kilometers of it. The one I was riding on in 2018…

And it was the middle of the night…

And I was awake…

And the train was rolling...

As they do, ceaselessly…

I should say something about trains. Particularly when you are riding on one. And sleeping. And waking. And eating. And showering. And making coffee. And drinking tee. And finding your way to the meal car. And looking out the window because, whatever else do you have to do? And feeling them roll beneath you while you do all of the above.

A train is more than a womb, it is a mother all in itself. A rolling stock of steel and huge iron and I can’t image whatever else and the energy that drives it all but drives it it does and we are the ones being driven.

And drives it it does and I am here in its heart and soul and womb and bosom. And I am in a cabin car all by myself in a bed roll that unfurls to let me in and which would go away in the morning and right now I need it to keep myself warm and comfortable and safe and in something that I want and need. All I know is that it shelters me. Holds me. Comforts me. That is enough. It is my home. For now. And now is all I know.

I am in the train, the Trans Siberian Railroad. And I am safe.

And I feel the train slip slowly from track to track, switch to rail, and back to another. It is gentle. Sweet, even. And oh, so peaceful. The delicious lull of a train maneuvering its moorings. Kiss and caress. Hug and embrace. Dance and discover. Find and… And I want some of it. More of it. All of it.

And I get up.

I had no idea where we were. Somewhere in Siberia. Duh! That amounts to nine-tenths of Russia. But I knew I was somewhere. Special. That’s a given.

The train lurched, lunged, and then stood still. It sounds like a riddle. I suppose it was. Thirty white horses on a pink hill. First they champ. Then they stamp. Then they stand still! Ah, of course. I know the answer to this riddle. Teeth!

But in this case the teeth are trays of rail cars all in a row. Not teeth of alabaster and porcelain lining a person’s mouth. These are teeth of steel and glass gliding along gums of iron. Much more mighty teeth are not to be found.

I didn’t know what was going on outside. I was a passenger. Like many on this trip. Not supposed to be awake and aware of what is going on the outside. But the outside went on anyway. And I was awake.

For a long time I just rested. And felt. And sensed the body around me. The steel giant. The grasp of machine and earth. The monstrosity of it. A mighty machine clenching an earthbound ribbon of steel. The marvel of it. Indeed! The chaos of it. A clenching, grasping, gasping, belly of steam consuming the countryside. How is it possible?

Her. How is she possible? The marvel of her. The train. She. Mother. Sister. Friend. Dare I touch you? Marvel at your presence? Dear girl. Wonderous host. Marvelous woman. What a marvel to behold. I salute you.

Two O’clock in the morning. In the middle of Siberia. In the dark of night. On the Trans Siberian Railroad between nowhere and nevermore. This is where I found myself.

I got up. Fetched my camera. Looked out the widow of my cabin. And marveled. Such wonders are there on the other side of every window.

This is what I saw through mine.